


Santified

by Sar_Kalu



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Supernatural
Genre: Completely AU, Doesn't follow cannon, Highly Religious, More an exploration than anything concrete
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-20
Updated: 2017-12-20
Packaged: 2019-02-17 12:00:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13076430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sar_Kalu/pseuds/Sar_Kalu
Summary: What would happen if Harry knew God? If Harry turned his back on the Wizarding World? If Harry walked among Angels and Demons, Hunters, Vampires and Werewolves. Who would Live? Who would Die? And would Harry be Harry if he had no Magic at all?





	1. Hail Mary, Full Of Grace

The boy walked this route everyday before and after school. Too big shoes sliding on his feet, slick with sweat because he didn’t own any socks. Shorts, three sizes too big, tied to his waist with a length of leather stolen from Mrs. Lewisham’s messenger bag. A shirt tucked in and dwarfing his skinny frame with its baggy folds, coloured grey, ripped and torn from hard wear and tear. A bag, ragged and torn, slung over his shoulder, dragging at his back and filled with two sets of books. His own and his cousins. 

 

From the school gate he darted across the road, looking both ways anxiously, his features tight and fearful as cars just barely miss him, buffeting him with their slipstream. Down Acacia Street and past the big white plaster house with a red tiled room. Crossing the road onto Johnson Lane and cutting across the park at the end where the park backed the big church with its red bricks, colourful windows and stark men that worked their, dressed in black and white, their features stern and commanding. 

 

Running across the park and dodging the children playing their, their eyes mean as they watch him flee, cawing and jeering him to _run, don’t worry, we’ll get you next time_. While their parents sit and watch, hands in pockets and bags, their brick like mobile phones primed and ready for that call that would hail the police to drag him away. Crossing Wisteria Walk onto Privet Drive would be easy, no one but the lonely old man from Number Three would be home, not even Mrs. Fig at Number Seven. He would scoop up Chester, the orange cat from Five off the front porch, dropping the marmalade tom back onto his side of the street and then return to Number Four, slinking out ‘round back to await his Aunt and Cousin who would have visited a department store, or the grocery shops as a ‘treat’.

 

Today, however he didn’t. His lips hurt from his cousin, Dudley punching him at school today. His shoulders felt wrenched and painful from the skinny rat-like boy, Piers, holding them back awkwardly, splaying him across Piers’ front as the smaller crueler boy enjoyed every hit, grunt and moan spilling from his lips. Even his bottom and belly hurt, though Gordon and Malcolm were to blame for that. Gordon liked to kick people and his belly made a great target. Loud but wouldn’t hurt Gordon’s toes through his soft sand-shoes. Malcolm was different, he had a big brother who loved him very, very much. A big brother that would stroke him and whisper just how much he loved his baby brother, how pretty he was. 

 

Malcolm had shown Dudley and Piers and Gordon what Trevor, his big brother, had done to him. Had wriggled his skinny, bony fingers into his shorts and stuck them up his bum, crooking and curving them and finding a little hot button on his insides. Malcolm had pressed that button and watched him squeal and squirm, watched his tiny bare penis get hard and leaky like Trevor's had. Dudley had been impressed, his blue eyes curious as he watched and listened and then had demanded the same treatment, guessing rightly that the whimpers and gasps from his cousin had been from pleasure, not pain.  He had slunk away, humiliated and pained while Malcolm taught his friends about that button in their bums that made them hard like real men. 

 

Instead of taking his usual route across the park and avoiding the cruel children and their parents who watched and waited, their mobiles and lips ready and determined to take him away, he instead slid across the parking lot, unaware of narrowed grey eyes that watched him curiously. He stood in the shadow of the great brick Church, the words of the Lord drawing his eye and making him feel humble and very much alone. As he turned away the doors that were always locked and always closed to him, creaked open, letting a waft of warm air reach his thin, bony form and like a magnet to a lodestone, he dragged his feet across the gravel pathway and into the entryway of the church.

 

In another time and place, this decision would be followed by him meeting the junior and very self important priest and being chased from Church lands for the first and last time in his life, loosing him from the fold whereupon on his eleventh birthday he would meet a great man with wild black haired man who would sweep him away to the north and into a society lost to time. 

 

In yet another time and place, the church was empty, the junior priest watching him with dark eyes and a suspicious set to his mouth while the senior priest watched and waited, sympathy and pity warring in his ancient chest. After moments spent staring fearfully at the bleeding man on the cross and mumbling his way through the Lords prayer, what bits he remembered, he would slink away again, never to be seen there again and would seek out a better life for himself, but still end up in the north with a wild hairy man with kind eyes as his mentor.

 

This time and place was different because the junior priest was out on a house call at a local parishioners house, passing on the Churches condolences and hearing about the tiny, dark haired boy with golden-green eyes and too big clothing. He would listen and dismiss her worries, assuring her that her husband, recently passed, would find himself in Heaven and return to the Church and find a tiny dark haired boy with too big and blood stained clothing muttering the Lords prayer and kneeling at the statue of Jesus’ feet, tears rolling down his thin face while the senior priest watched and waited but made no move to intervene.

 

The Church was a place for lost souls, drawing them in and giving them comfort and the ability to carry on during times both rough and gentle. As the junior priest entered the tiny brick church where he served and guided the tiny flock of Little Whinging, he watched his superior step forwards and direct him towards the tiny shaking figure of a seven year old boy, bruises flowering on his pale skin and blood drying rust red on his faded clothing. Pity filled him as did suspicion. He knew this child, knew his faults and knew his sins. He had listened to the Aunt and Uncle’s confessions, had listened to the cousins and knew of the rage and arrogance that burned within such a skinny, innocent-looking child. 

 

As both priests, dressed in pressed black slacks, with shiny black shoes and wearing their vestments, approached the tiny child at the feet of Christ, the boy looked up and panicked, fear flooding his thin face and widening too green eyes and both knew, with the immediacy of those trained to spot it, that the Aunt, Uncle and Cousin had lied. That this child was sick in mind, body, heart and soul, that there was nothing to do but to impart their suspicions and fears to the local authorities while comforting the child in the only way they could.

 

“Peace, my child,” Father Matthew said calmly, soothingly and quietly. His deep toned voice ringing out in the Church and echoing back with the force of twenty.

 

The child staggered to his feet and fell once more, Father Thomas leaping forwards to catch him, supporting the too thin child in his arms, the marks of his tears like silvery trails on dirty cheeks. “My son, are you well?” Father Thomas asked, fear filling him. The death of a child was something to be feared and avoided for they are the true innocents in his mind, to be protected, loved, cared for and cherished.

 

“Daddy?” The child whispered, hopeful and heart breaking.

 

“No, my child,” Father Matthew breathed, sinking beside Father Thomas and their young charge. “It is Father Thomas and Matthew, the reverends of God and the Holy Host.”

 

The boy smiled, raising his eyes from the priests chest where their rosary beads lay and to their eyes where they felt something like forgiveness pass over them. Father Matthew, a man pushing sixty, had felt such things before and knew the child for someone special, someone who would disappear shortly after his eleventh birthday, like so many others and become someone truly great. While Father Thomas knew none of this and bowed his head, murmuring to his Father in Heaven and pleading for Grace and guidance, for God to send someone to him who could heal this child and remove his Earthly worries from him. 

 

“What is your name child?” Father Matthew asked, resting a hand in benediction on the childs brow.

 

“Harry, sir,” the child spoke quietly. “My name is Harry.”

 

“I am no sir,” Father Matthew smiled, slightly mischievously. “My name is Father Matthew.”

 

Harry smiled brightly, “can you be my father?” 

 

“No, child,” Father Thomas broke in, helping Harry upright and onto his feet while Father Matthew struggled on his own. “We cannot, but we know of you, we know that you are alone on this Earthly plain.”

 

Harry lowered his head in sadness and despair, tears rolling down his cheeks once more, accepting his fate. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

 

“Do not be,” Father Matthew said, holding out his hand. “Come child, let me show you something.” Harry nodded placing a thin, tiny hand into Father Matthew’s own wrinkled but strong grip and smiled as the older man tugged him forwards, up to the alter and stopping at the base of the stairs. “Do you know who this is, Harry?” Father Matthew asked.

 

“Jesus Christ,” Harry answered, his voice curious but nonjudgemental. 

 

“The Son of Our Lord, Our Father,” Father Matthew said. “You may be an orphan on this mortal and Earthly plane, but you are not alone, my child. God, His Son and the Holy Host love you and treasure you for who you are. You are never alone, Harry.”

 

Father Matthew would have no knowledge of this until Harry turned eleven and turned his back on the magical world, but his words that day had a deep and psychological effect on a poor orphan boy. Harry, as he looked up at the bloody, gory statue of Jesus Christ knew deep in his heart of hearts that this man, dying in agony as he was on the Cross, was everything he wanted to be. Everything he would value later on in life. 

 

Father Matthew and Father Thomas soon left, leaving Harry in front of the alter, mumbling the Lords prayer and gripping the banister before him. Before Father Thomas departed he drew from his pocket a book of bound black leather, creased and worn from use, the faded gold letters on the front reading: The Holy Bible. It would become Harry’s most treasured possession. It would become Harry’s life, love and work. It would be his salvation and his comfort. 

 

…

 

…

 

“ _In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth. And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep._ ” Harry read the passage slowly, barely faltering knowing each breath, every pause, line, and word. The ragged Bible in his hands was cradled as he lay beneath the thin blanket meant to shelter him from the cold and the night. “ _And the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters._ ” Beside him, Dudley listened quietly, a different boy, a different child as he silently listened to his cousin speak the Word of the Lord and knew that what Harry spoke, was true. “ _And God said, Let there be light: and there was light. And God saw the light, that it was good: and God divided the light from the darkness_.”

 

Dudley smiled gently, his face thinner, wiser than his fathers. His eyes more knowing, more understanding than his mothers. He knew his cousin was Heaven sent and Heaven bound, that it was his task to make up for the sins of his childhood, to carry Harry when the younger boy could not walk, to love him when no one else would, to know that his cousin was more of a family, a mother, a brother, a teacher, a father than anyone else on Gods green Earth. 

 

“ _And God called the light Day, and the darkness he called Night; and the evening and the morning were the first day._ ” Harry continued, his voice smooth and rhythmic, carrying gently to where his Aunt and Uncle lay sleeping above. Dudley shifted closer, unconsciously reaching out, seeking the comfort of his cousins bony hand and the strength the other boy provided. “ _And God said, Let there be a firmament in the midst of the waters, and let it divide the waters from the waters. And God made the firmament, and divided the waters which_ _were_ _under the firmament from the waters which_ _were_ _above the firmament:_ _and it was so_.”

 

They were coming up to Dudley’s favourite part now, and the older boy smiled, ignoring the time as it ticked closer and closer to midnight. Tomorrow was Harry’s birthday and Dudley couldn’t wait. It would be the first birthday since The Discovery that his cousin was a priest, a true Son of God. That when Harry spoke the Word of God, it was so. Harry tugged his cousin closer, the couch above them saggy and bare, neither boy willing to let the other suffer alone and so both chose the floor, as Jesus once did, so would they. For love, for family, for everything on Gods’ Earth, for they were and are Children of the Lord.

 

Harry’s voice picked up, knowing that his Aunt and Uncle were soundly asleep and unlikely to bother he and Dudley this night and so, with strident tones, he described the birth of their world. Gods Earth, theirs to care for and nurture. To love and guide. For they were Gods Children and this Earth was his favoured creation, above Angels and Humans both. And they would love her, hold her in the palms of their hands and close to their hearts. 

 

“ _And God called the firmament Heaven. And the evening and the morning were the second day_.” Harry paused, knowing that Dudley loved the next pat enough to memorise it. To know it within himself well enough to speak it as if Gods own Truth could let him see this moment in Creation. To watch as God lay His hands on the Earth and Ordered it so.

 

Dudley smiled, knowing his cousin waited for him to speak and continue: “ _And God said, Let the waters under the heaven be gathered together unto one place, and let the dry_ _land_ _appear:_ _and it was so_ _._ ” He took another breath, steadier than the last, his chest fit to burst with pride at being his cousins chosen. Beloved enough to walk by his side. Forgiven in his sins. In his failures. As the Son had commanded and died, so Harry and Dudley forgave those who sinned against them. It was not theirs to pass judgement, for that power resided in God alone. Dudley, still smiling and still delighting in his chance to read and speak Gods word, continued:

 

“ _And God called the dry_ _land_ _Earth; and the gathering together of the waters called he Seas: and God saw t_ _hat it was good_ _._ ” Dudley proclaimed in a loud toned voice, his excitement getting the better of him. God was good, God was great, but his creation of Earth was something that never failed to stir Dudley and make him grateful for being alive and well. “ _And God said, Let the earth bring forth grass, the herb yielding seed,_ _and_ _the fruit tree yielding fruit after his kind, whose seed_ _is_ _in itself, upon the earth:_ _and it was so_ _._

 

“ _And the earth brought forth grass,_ _and_ _herb yielding seed after his kind, and the tree yielding fruit, whose seed_ _was_ _in itself, after his kind: and God saw_ _that it was good_.” Dudley finished breathlessly, a wide grin on his face and fervour lighting his eyes. 

 

Harry squeezed his cousins hand and pressed it tightly against his thigh, knowing that his cousin would be flying high for a while now. Their watches read 11:56, the faint light illuminating the text in the book, unnecessary because they knew it well. Reading it each night and each morning, breathing their prayers and living to the strict requirements set out within. Steering clear of fish on days not of the Sun, avoiding the mixing of two cloths and mixing of meat and dairy. They were Children of God and they lived their lives according to his Word. 

 

“ _And God said, Let there be lights in the firmament of the heaven to divide the day from the night; and let them be for signs, and for seasons, and for days, and years: and let them be for lights in the firmament of the heaven to give light upon the earth: and it was so._ ” Harry read, squinting hard to read the tiny black writing on the pale yellow pages, thin and fine beneath is fingers. “ _And God made two great lights; the greater light to rule the day, and the lesser light to rule the night: he made the stars also._ ”

 

Dudley leaned his head back, able to see the stars that God made love his head, shining brightly white against the darkened sky. He knew the moon to be hidden behind the clouds that blew in off the sea, the rain from earlier having subsided and stilled when Harry quietly asked, his lips blue and Dudley shivering beside him. This was how they knew they were Beloved of God, he spoke to them through the world around them, they needed no words for His Love, for love is through thought, word and deed. This they knew. This they had faith in. 

 

“And God set them in the firmament of the heaven to give light upon the earth, and to rule over the day and over the night, and to divide the light from the darkness,” Harry spoke, trailing off as he heard noise outside and Dudley sat up, shadows casting his face into darkness. “And God saw that it was good,” Harry whispered, grabbing his cousins arm and pulling him close.

 

“Who’s there?” Dudley asked hoarsely, only to leap nearly a foot in the air as a resounding ‘BOOM’ shook the tiny hut on the rock they were in. Dust drifted in motes from the rafters, settling into their hair and turning it grey. 

 

‘BOOM!’

 

The door shook and both cousins jumped to their feet and hid behind the fireplace, the Uncle’s attempts at starting a fire lay uselessly in the grate. 

 

‘BOOM!’

 

The Aunt and Uncle clattered down the stairs, finally awoken by the noise, the Aunt’s face pinched and furious as she his behind her husband, who clung to the long, thin shotgun in his hands.

 

‘BOOM!’ 

 

With a thundering ‘Crash!’, the door fell inwards, bouncing along the floor to land by the Uncle on the stairs. Had he been next to them, his feet would have been removed or shattered. A man, taller by half again than the Uncle, stepped through the doorway, looking sheepishly apologetic.

 

“Sorry abou’ tha’,” he said, his accent a thick Scottish burr that rumbled deep in his chest beneath his ragged, thick beard. His eyes twinkled kindly as he stared at the two boys, a smile twitching at his lips and his hands, as big as dustbin lids, wiped themselves down his thick moleskin coat. “Don’ suppose yeh’ve go’ any tea?”

 

The Uncle and Aunt stood, terrified, on the stairs while Harry shook his head and Dudley planted himself protectively in front of the younger boy. 

 

“Damn shame,” the man muttered, stomping over to the Uncle and tugging the gun from his nerveless hands and tying it into a huge knot. “Yeh coul’ ‘ur’ someone wi’ tha’, Dursley!”

 

“Excuse me,” Harry interjected, curious. “But who exactly are you?”

 

The man blinked, “righ’, sorry.” He apologised and sat on the couch, meeting Harry’s eyes kindly. “Reubeus Hagrid, Keeper of the Keys and Grounds at Hogwar’s,” he was proud of his title and it showed. “Of course, yeh’ll know all abou’ Hogwar’s.”

 

  
“Sorry,” Dudley said warily. “No.”

 

Hagrid barely shot the blonde a look as Harry shook his head. “No?” He was dumbfounded. “Din’t you wonder where yer Mum and Dad learned i’ ahll?”

 

“Learned what?” Harry questioned.

 

“Yeh’r a wizard, ‘Arry!” 

 

Harry took a step back, shaking his head. “No, no I’m not.”

 

“Yeh’ve not done anythin’ strange or abnormal?” Hagrid asked knowingly.

 

“He’s not a witch!” Dudley hissed, outraged. “He’s Gods Chosen!”

 

The Aunt jerked in shock, her hazel eyes darting over to her son in horror while the Uncle stiffened and opened and closed his mouth silently, trying to find the words to deny Dudley’s claim. Hagrid just scoffed, shaking his head in disgust. 

 

“God?” Hagrid asked dryly. “There’s no such thin’.”

 

Harry lifted his chin, “there is. God is real. He lives within us. He takes care of us. He loves us.”

 

Hagrid shook his head again, “no there ain’t. Jesus was just a wizard looking for some adulation. The Arabs took care of him in the first century. Only stupid Muggles believe those tales.”

 

“No,” Harry denied, his lips bloodless and dry. “God is real.”

 

Dudley nodded fervently, “He created us from dust and to dust we will return.”

 

The giant wizard stared at them, horrified and morbidly curious. “‘Ow do yeh know? Eh?” He asked. “‘Ow Can yeh be sure ‘e ain’t some fairytale?”

“Because He healed me,” Dudley stated with utter confidence, tugging his shirt off and baring his pallid chest for all to see. A long thick cut ran from sternum to groin showing that the gash would have been life threatening. “Harry prayed for my soul, for my health and God granted me a second chance.” Dudley’s blue eyes were fervent and determined, “nothing you can do or say will convince me otherwise.”

 

“Or me,” Harry said, his voice calm and assured. 

 

“Bu’ why?” Hagrid pleaded for understanding, knowing that unless Harry accepted his position as a wizard that he would be unlikely to accept his position at Hogwarts.

 

“ _Blessed_ _be_ _the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, which according to his abundant mercy hath begotten us again unto a lively hope by the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead, to an inheritance incorruptible, and undefiled, and that fadeth not away, reserved in heaven for you, who are kept by the power of God through faith unto salvation ready to be revealed in the last time._ ”  Harry said, his face beatific in its expression and he raised a hand to Dudley’s shoulder and continued, confident and assured: “ _wherein ye greatly rejoice, though now for a season, if need be, ye are in heaviness through manifold temptations: that the trial of your faith, being much more precious than of gold that perisheth, though it be tried with fire, might be found unto praise and honour and glory at the appearing of Jesus Christ._ ” (Peter 1:3-7)

 

Hagrid sat on the couch and knew, intimately as one who has seen and heard of this before, that to remove Harry know and introduce him to the Magical World would result in madness or death. There would time enough later to convert him to the wizarding world, but it wasn't today. Today he needed to report to Dumbledore and alert the mage to the Saviours' religious fanaticism. 

 

Heaving a heavy sigh, the large man stumped from the room, leaving the door by the stairs and the children by the fireplace, the crunch of his footsteps fading away into the crash of the surf. Harry stood there, knowing that the wizards would be unlikely to leave him be but confident in his request now. Beside him, Dudley met his eyes and nodded knowingly, convinced and determined that this was the correct path for them both.

 

“Aunt Petunia, Uncle Vernon,” Harry stated smoothly, twisting to meet their shell-shocked gazes. “I wish to join the seminary.”

 

“As do I,” Dudley added, their faces serious.

 

The Aunt and Uncle whimpered, confused and concerned by the changes that they had seen in their son over the past eighteen months. Dudley had grown and matured, distancing himself from Gordon and Malcolm, citing that they were dirty and foul boys who were cursed, while Piers followed Dudley around with the aura of one who worshiped the ground he walked on. They were not to know that Harry’s miracle had more than one witness and that Piers’ behaviour stemmed directly from it. 

 

Vernon considered his boy, seeing a seriousness in him that his own Uncle Frederick had worn during his time as a man of the cloth. Vernon suspected that Dudley would be more likely to stick with the Church because of his early introduction. He hated Bible bashers but this was his son and for his son he’d suspend all disbelief and dislike and actually do something right with his life: he’d support him.

 

…

 

…

 

Stepping out into the bright hot sun from the air-conditioned terminal had Harry and Dudley both shielding their eyes from the light and squinting around them. The world around them was very different to the seminary they’d left behind. Six years of conditioning, schooling and living as Gods chosen had taught them both humility and the knowledge needed to survive out in the world. 

 

Italy was a place of hot sun, bright blue skies and interesting people. The cobbled stone streets and ancient architecture spoke of a history and a liveliness that wasn’t exactly similar to England. The rustic reds, the pale yellows and glorious blues drew the eyes and delighted the senses. Despite being dressed in plain brown cassocks, neither Harry or Dudley surprised those around them. Priests visited the Holy City all the time, they were no one special. 

 

Making their way to the ranks of black taxi cabs, Harry slid into the first available on and quietly bartered with the man in the front regarding payment while telling him their destination. The fare was cheap because no one wanted to tax the Church. Not when it was their salvation, soul and eternity was on the line. Cynicism might be inappropriate for one of Gods Shepard’s, but frankly, in light of his experiences, few though they were, he had learnt that being of the Church often gave you far too much leeway with those around you. 

 

The car slid through the streets carefully, rolling around obstructions and screaming motorists alike while the cab driver pointed out various points of interest his rapid Italian keeping their attention throughout the hour long drive. As they approached the main gate, the taxi pulled off to the side and the two British priests stepped free of the cab, their bags slung across their shoulders with ease. Behind them the Guards stood to attention, their eyes curious.

 

Before Harry or Dudley could leave, the cab driver, quite taken with his passengers, climbed from his car and knelt at their feet. “Fathers, I am not a good Christian man but I do love God, our Father in Heaven,” the man shivered beneath their combined stares and continued swiftly: “I know I do not deserve it, but I would ask your forgiveness and blessing.”

 

“We are not God, the lone judge of us all,” Harry stated seriously. “But if you seriously desire this, I would be glad to bless you, my son.”

 

“Yes, Father,” the man cried out, tears of shame and repentance streaming from his eyes. “Please, forgive me!”

 

“There is no need my son,” Harry murmured, kneeling in front of the cab driver and cradling his head in his hands. “You are already forgiven as Christ died for our sins,” Harry drew the cross on the mans forehead and then rested his palm on his forehead. “In the name of Our Father in Heaven, I bless this Child of God and grant him the comfort he seeks.”

 

The cab driver felt warmth steal over him, a warmth he had not felt since his wife divorced him ten years ago and his mother died three decades ago. It was love, compassion and sympathy rolled into one, non-judgemental and caring and the cab driver cried, gripping Harry’s cassock  and pressing kisses to them.

 

“Stand, my son,” Harry breathed, drawing the man from his knees and onto his feet. “You are not the Snake who betrayed out God, but the man who repents and forgives his sins.”

 

The cab driver nodded, wiping away his tears and sliding into his car, drove away once more. Comforted in a way that he’d not felt since he was a boy. Six months later he would join the Church and become one of their most compassionate attendees, helping heal the sick, care for the poor and love those unable to love themselves. Just before his death, Antonio Romano would write a letter addressed to the priest who had saved him from himself and leave his entire amassed fortune to the Church so that it might aid those in need. 

 

Harry watched the man leave with concerned eyes, Dudley’s gentle hand on his arm drawing him away so that they might meet the priest that awaited them by the gates, his iron-grey hair clipped short and neatly against his head while his brown eyes watched them sternly, he wore a black cassock with a red sash, alerting them to his stance as a Bishop. As the duo approached the priest, Father Rossi, the man felt a kind of peace steal over him, the kind of peace that he rarely felt outside the Church itself and knew that the dark eyed man who had blessed the cab driver was touched by God. 

 

“Welcome to the Vatican,” he greeted, knowing that the men behind him felt the same presence and knew that they would be unable to resist receiving a blessing from the dark haired priest. “I am Bishop Francesco Rossi, and I will be your guide during your stay here.”

 

“An honour to meet you, Bishop Rossi,” the blonde man said bowing slightly and dipping his head. “I am Dudley Dursley and this is my cousin, Harry Potter.”

 

“A pleasure, Fathers Potter and Dursley,” Bishop Rossi smiled, gesturing for them to enter the second most Holy place on Earth.

 

“Please Bishop Rossi, we do not like out last names,” Harry said quietly, his voice melodic and fluid, indicating that he had speech training and would be proficient at reading scripture. “We do not care for such formality, even though it may be inappropriate here, please, use our forenames only.”

 

Bishop Rossi felt his eyebrows twitch upwards in surprise, “of course, Father Harry.” The smile that Harry sent his way seemed to light up the world around him, cascading him in warmth and unbidden, unasked for love. In that moment Bishop Rossi no longer suspected, but _knew_ that he was in the presence of a Saint. A man chosen by God to do great things and going by the calm and surety on his face, Father Harry either had no idea or cared little for his station. Bishop Rossi rather suspected that it was the former, for the man was kind and naive and not one for the Church politics. 

 

“This way, please,” Bishop Rossi beckoned, pausing long enough for the guards to receive their blessings. The first of which broke down crying as the cab driver had while the second knelt and tried to kiss the hem of the Saints cassock. Harry refused his genuflection, instead drawing him upright and telling him that he should _bow before no one but God and his Vessel on Earth._

 

Bishop Rossi led the interesting pair through the grounds and towards the building that they would be staying in. Father Dudley occasionally pausing alongside his cousin as the gentle man caressed the flowers and trees around them a beatific smile on his face, delighting in all of Gods creations. The longer he spent in Father Harry’s presence, the happy he felt and the more Father Rossi felt like asking for his own blessing from the man. 

 

Their arrival at the dorms that they’d live in for the next three months was heralded by a gust of wind that tousled Harry’s wild black hair, messy despite its short length, and made the man appear to have dark wings as his cassock danced against his skin. Bishop Rossi smiled slightly, holding Father Dudley back with one hand while gesturing Father Harry in, his gaze kind.

 

“How long has he been like this?” Bishop Rossi questioned, curious.

 

Father Dudley hummed lightly, amusedly. “Like what, Father?”

 

Bishop Rossi shot him a stern look, “you know what. Gentle and kind, saint-like.”

 

Dudley’s lips twisted sadly, his blue eyes shadowing with darkness. “Since he was very young,” he answered, fiddling with the cuffs of his robs and staring out over the gardens, aware of the other mans curious gaze. “He found God not long after I and my friends at the time beat him to a bloody pulp. I was not a nice boy, but Harry still found it within him to forgive me.”

 

“There was nothing to forgive, Dudley,” Harry’s voice broke over them like a song, his eyes shining with gentle joy, his thin form hidden by swathes of brown fabric hanging loosely from his shoulders. “You were ever the good son and Uncle bore me no good will. You obeyed as God intended, but in your obeisance, you lost your way as Uncle lost his.”

 

“He has since returned,” Dudley observed quietly, remembering the last time he had seen his father. Thin and wasted but kind, his infamous moustache and hair faded grey and thinned. Spending his time amassing a fortune on the stock markets only to donate every penny to the many, many organisations he belonged to. 

 

Harry smiled calmly, “God is love and all return to Him eventually.”

 

Bishop Rossi smiled in quiet agreement. “Well said, Father Harry.” He paused in his leaving, hesitant but determined. “If you did not mind, I would seek a Blessing from you,” Bishop Rossi stated formally, falling back on the manners and expectations that his parents had once drummed into him as a child. 

 

“I would be honoured,” Harry agreed solemnly, raising a hand and resting it on Father Rossi’s brow. “In the name of Our Father in Heaven, I bless this Child of God, this Son of the Cloth and grant him the comfort he seeks so that he might walk among the Lambs of God and grant them comfort and serenity.”

 

Bishop Rossi felt his knees give out and it was only because of Father Dudley that he did not break a leg or knee. The warmth that swept him was as unforgiving as Holy Fire and brought to him a ind of peace. In that moment, Bishop Rossi, unrepentant politician and quibbler of semantics, became a man who forgives all. In that moment he found God as he’d never found him before and knew what had driven the pontifical guards to their knees in thanks and gratification. Like he had with the guards, Father Harry drew him to his feet and smiled gently.

 

“Bow before none but God and his Vessel on this Earth,” he stated, quietly and calmly. Harry had no need for obeisance, calmly assured in his position as a lowly priest serving the Lord High Above. Dudley smiled beside him, equally calm and comfortable as his cousins sidekick. Sometimes, all you need was a little love to make even the lowest position on this Earth comfortable and safe, the whole reason for you being here. 

 

Bishop Rossi watched the two men disappear into the vestry, felt the same calm knowledge settle in his mind and left, his slow steps drawing him from the shadow into the light, his hands pressed into his cuffs as he meandered through the gardens, ignoring the pressing business he had else where. He was close to sixty-five, perhaps it was time to retire and find a flock of his own to love and guide in the way that the Lord had meant him to. 

 

Coming to a slow stop beside the rose bushes, Bishop Rossi understood the desire of the two young priests to be called by their first names. He had thought of himself as Father Rossi for so long that it had lost all meaning and closeness. As he had desired to retire, so Father Francesco Rossi released his last hold on the past that he had hated, a past that his mind squirmed away from whenever he dared to painfully remember. Bishop Francesco, he thought to himself, it suited him far better than anything else in this world. Bishop Francesco, Shepard of the Lord God, the Son and the Holy Spirit. 

 

It was like this that Heinrich Adler, minor Priest and Bishop Francesco’s secretary, found him. Iron grey hair glowed softly in the twilight while eyes were no longer pinched with determination and frustration, but were warmly twinkling at the world around him. Father Adler hesitated, unwilling to disturb the Bishop from his peaceful reflection. In the gentle light the Bishop appeared to be almost gentle and soft, and kindly compassionate. A man you would not hesitate to speak with for you knew that his words could hold only wisdom. 

 

“Are you going to stand there all night, my child?” Bishop Francesco inquired, tilting his head to meet the eyes of his secretary. “Come Father Heinrich, you are not normally this shy.” 

 

Nor could he have been, prior to his meeting with Father Harry, Bishop Francesco was a known hard-ass. A man not to be trifled with, embittered from his trials with hard-headed men too far stuck in the past, unwilling or perhaps unable to learn. Father Heinrich startled at the gentler tone that his boss used, hesitantly taking a seat by his side. Bishop Francesco smiled at the other man, taking in the bright blue eyes and blonde hair of the Aryan German and felt the usual bitterness slide off his soul and into the nothingness around them. 

 

Just because he, as an ex-Jew had been stolen away by the Nazi’s, didn’t mean that Heinrich Adler was their Dogmatic Son; indeed the German Priest at his side was nothing but kind to him, horrified and guilt ridden when he had chanced a glance at his left arm, bitterly closing his eyes and never saying a word against his cruelly barbed tongue. Taking it as his penitence. 

 

“I have much to ask forgiveness for, my son,” Bishop Francesco said quietly. “Though from you most of all.” Father Heinrich considered his boss soberly, knowing that a single word from him could send the other man in front of a board of ecclesial inquiry, but instead, spoke not a word, waiting for the other man to continue, which he did. “It is because of this that as of tomorrow morning that I will tender my resignation and nominate you for the position.”

 

Father Heinrich stilled in shock, “may I ask why, your Excellency?”

 

“It has come to my attention that I have wandered from Gods path, failing him.” Bishop Francesco stated, stroking the edges of his black cassock. “I have decided that the greed and politics of this place is no longer for me and that I would prefer to live as God intended, seeking forgiveness for my sins and atonement for my past mistakes.”

 

Father Heinrich considered this and nodded his acceptance, unhappy as he was with the situation. “Then,” he said slowly, calmly and fearfully as he met the brown eyes of the man beside him. “I shall send you off with own Blessing and forgiveness, though, to me, there is nothing to forgive.” He stared out across the gardens and thought briefly, “I have seen the pressure you are under, seen the cruelty of the archbishops and their words, and I have never hated you or seen your frustration as anything but justly deserved.”

 

“Thank you, Heinrich,” Bishop Francesco murmured, standing once more and wincing as he did so. “That means a lot to me, thank you.”

 

“I would however,” Father Heinrich said with a hint of cheeky mischievousness as the Bishop turned around and met his eyes with some surprise. “Ask that you consider me your friend and keep in touch, if only so I can bombard you with questions.”

 

Bishop Francesco was startled into bright laughter, his shoulders shaking with mirth. His teary eyes, sparkling with humour, met his new but old friends and he smiled widely, “Heinrich,” he said in amusement. “It would be my pleasure.”

 

…

 

…

 

Father Harry stood on the pulpit having been nominated to give a speech on love and tolerance for St. Valentines Day this year, the Holy Bible spread before him, his fingers gently stroking the pages, unaware of the bored but attentive crowd below him. He raised his hands, spreading them slowly to encompass the room and his movement drew the eye of everyone there, his cousin in the front staring devotedly up at him. 

 

“ _In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth; and the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep_ ,” Father Harry stated firmly, his melodic voice, strengthened and harnessed by hours of reading to his cousin in the depths of the night, spreading like the wings of an angel over his congregation. Even the Pope, seated below him, was enrapture by his voice as he spoke. 

 

“And with this Beginning comes all others,” Father Harry continued, sweeping his eyes over the gathered people to give his words gravity and worth. “Without Beginnings there can be no middles or ends. With God, so everything Begins; and with God, so everything Ends.

 

“On this day, February Fourteenth, we come to celebrate Gods love for us, his people, his children, as we celebrate our love for each other. Saint Valentine was a man who was imprisoned for his desire to spread love and the joining of spirits. In this joining between man and woman, Saint Valentine not only allowed for love, Gods love to flourish and find favour, but also granted hope to many who had none.”

 

Father Harry paused long enough to allow his words to sink in and smiled gently, “for his deeds, Saint Valentine was executed but his story, his hope and his desire lives on. 

 

“On this day remember those who you have loved and lost, remember those who you have loved and gained, and think of those who you are yet to love at all.” Harry raised his hands up higher, overtaken with his fervour and desire to share this miracle of love, and tilted his head up to look above him, “but most of all,” he said hoarsely. “Most of all, remember the Lord our Gods love for you!”

 

He lowered his hands, and spoke with solemn intent, “let us pray.” He lifted his hand, reaching out to his congregation that had, as one, stood without reserve, many crying from the emotions he espoused within them. “ _Grant, we beseech thee, O Almighty God, that we who solemnise the festival of blessed Valentine, Thy Martyr, may, by his intercession, be delivered from all the evils that threaten us. Through Christ our Lord._

 

 _“Amen._ ”

 

Father Harry returned to his seat, flushed with Gods Word and muse, settling beside Dudley who gripped his hand enough that he was anchored from standing up and screaming out his Love for God and the desire he held for Gods work. It would be months until he realised that, on that day, an angel had watched him with golden eyes and arched wings, filled with his Fathers presence, to go out and spread the word that God had returned once more. 

 

It would be months after that, that the angel realised that while Father Harry Potter was filled with Gods presence, it did not make him God. The golden eyed angel would be heart broken but devoted to the Saints cause, healing him, loving him and holding him within the palm of his hand.

 


	2. Saint Michael, The Archangel, Defend Us In Battle

 

The man, dressed as he was in pointed boots and long robes of silver stars on a midnight field, made his way down Privet Drive, taking not of the boring monotony that had not changed over the past ten years. It was noon and he hoped that the family he was visiting with would be home, his friend Hagrid had told him of their reluctance to let the youth attend his school. Apparently he had made a mistake, believing these people to be the safest alternative to others of his world. 

 

Making his way down the tiny stone pathway, ignoring the incredulous eyes of the neighbours and taking in the sight of a mud spattered SUV that sat in the driveway, Albus Dumbledore raised a thin, bony hand and rapped on the immaculate white door way, his half-moon glasses visible in the shiny surface of the number ‘4’ set in the middle of the door. The door knob turned and a tall thin woman with a pinched eyes and a sour-looking mouth stood in the doorway.

 

“I was wondering when you would arrive,” she hissed waspishly, stepping aside reluctantly and allowing Albus to step through. “Perhaps you can talk my son and the freak from attending Seminary school.”

 

Albus blinked in surprise, of all the people in this house he would have thought that Petunia Dursley would have been the most religious. “Lead me to them and I will try my best,” he agreed slowly, feeling off kilter as he followed the woman down the hall and into the kitchen. 

 

Two boys sat at the table, similar in build and height; one with dark hair and luminous green eyes and the other with golden blonde hair and sky blue eyes. Albus nodded to them as Petunia introduce them to each other and as Harry leant backwards, smiling gently while maintaining an aura that Albus’d had to work the past fifty years at, Albus could see the black spine of a leather bound book bearing golden letters reading: _The Holy Bible_. 

 

Albus sat across from both boys and smiled slightly, his lips twitching beneath is long white beard as his fingers laced together in prayer form beneath his chin. Blue eyes met green and he took in the seriousness of Harry Potter’s gaze and knew that there was nothing he could do to sway the boy from his faith, but perhaps he could sway the child into his fold. Dudley, for that could only be the blonde boys name, was watching this interaction with dark eyes, determinedly sitting beside his cousin despite his mothers attempts to chivvy him into the lounge and in front of the TV.

 

“Good Morning, Professor,” Harry greeted him, his green eyes sharp and knowing. “What brings you here?”

 

Somehow, Albus knew that the boy knew why he was there, he was just asking to be polite. Albus hummed slightly, considering his approach. “I am here to see if you won’t reconsider your refusal to join my school,” Albus finally admitted, deciding to be straight with the dark haired boy. This was not a pawn on a chess board or one of his political opponents to be manoeuvred as he willed, but rather an intelligent child who lived by Gods rules; a God he himself once worshipped before learning that God didn’t care for his magical children. That he had forsaken them long ago.

 

“I have not,” Harry denied softly and almost apologetically. “In three days Uncle will drive me to the seminary whereupon I will begin my life as a Man of the Cloth, in Service to the Creator. I understand that you wish me to rejoin Wizarding society but know that I cannot.”

 

Albus sighed tiredly, “if you will not return then you must let me bind your magic, we cannot have you revealing us to the outside world. Neither we or they are ready for such things. It would surely destroy us.”

 

Harry smiled kindly, “I think you will find this unnecessary, but I give you my permission in any case.”

 

Albus nodded once, shortly and sharply, before standing and making his way to Harry side, ignoring Petunia’s wrath filled glare. She did not approve of this wizard, she did not approve of his inability to change her sons mind, she did not approve of Harry’s devotion to a God who had stolen her life and love away from her. Petunia Dursley had once been a devoted Anglican, her hazel eyes turned upwards in awe and joy, but circumstance had rooted her feet to the ground, stealing her devotion, her joy from her breath and souring her heart towards the Lord. This her son and nephew knew but neither knew a way to heal her as she had healed them of their childhood bruises, colds and broken bones. 

 

Albus lay a hand on Harry Potter’s forehead and extended a tendril of magic into his mind, his body and his soul and was stunned. Aged hands shook as youthful hands took them and Harry smiled up at him. Albus sank to his knees, bowing his head, tears streaming from his eyes as he accepted Harry’s wordless benediction of forgiveness and guidance. Leaning against the kitchen benches, Petunia witnessed a lost Son of God be returned to the fold with a single touch of her nephews hand, her sons resting upon his, and knew, in that moment, that there was nothing she could so to sway them from their paths. In that moment, Petunia Dursley’s heart shattered a little more. In that moment, Harry Potter understood what it meant to Bless and Love another on behalf of his Lord God. In that moment, Dudley Dursley felt his cousins true power and dedicated himself to his cousins cause, selflessly and uninhibitedly. 

 

And in that moment, Albus Dumbledore refound his wavering faith after seventy long years and knew without doubt or hesitation that God did Love him and his people, that God had not forsaken them for their sins but instead awaited their return with open arms and kind compassion. And Albus Dumbledore wept tears of remorse, cleansing his soul of of sin and guilt for the first time in his long, long life.

 

…

 

…

 

Minerva McGonagall was a god-fearing woman of the Anglican denomination. Her stern demeanour hid a certainty and kindness born of knowing that Christ had died for her sins and that when her time came, Dinael, the Angel of Teachers, would welcome her into Heaven with open arms. This confidence often made her a strict and fair teacher, for God had taught her to Love and care for her students and she did not care for boundaries or differences. In her mind, children were children and deserved to be treated a-same. 

 

Yet, for all her faith and confidence, Minerva still doubted. How could she not when she read that witches were not to be suffered to live, that despite the advancing of the years her people were burned at the stake and slaughtered for their magical abilities. Humanity, she knew, was oft cruel and unkind, unhearing of their Fathers words teachings. Yet still she doubted and feared, wondering if her magic and who she was, would one day ensure her refusal at Heaven’s doors, for Dinael to strip her of her faith and magic and send her to the Pit for punishment, for daring to darken Heaven’s door, for daring to believe in a God that could not, or would not, Love her.

 

And then, on July 31st of the year 1991, Albus came to her, his eyes and body weary from visiting the young Mister Potter at his home in Surrey and all her questions were answered and relief and joy swept her doubts from her mind, lightening the burden that she was unaware of bearing. He entered her office with bowed shoulders and a weariness of one who has seen something not of this Earth, and she knew that something momentous had happened.

 

“Albus,” she breathed, shocked and horrified by her employers state as she fluttered to her side and handed him a steaming cup of tea and took the seat beside him, staring into his wizened face with concern. “What has happened to you?” She asked, fearful for his life.

 

Albus startled her by smiling gently at her, a marked difference to the usual knowing tilt of his lips that he usually wore, as if he had a private joke she had no knowledge of. “I met our illustrious Mister Potter, Minerva,” he stated quietly, sipping his tea and staring out the window behind her desk. 

 

“How is he?” Minerva asked curiously, a thought struck her and fear flooded her: “Did you manage to convince him to join us this year?”

 

Albus smiled more widely, “he is so very well, Minerva. So kind, compassionate and his soul,” Albus paused breathless as he closed his eyes, as if he were enfolded within a mothers hug. “His soul is beautiful.”

 

“His soul?” Minerva worried, because you didn’t look at another soul without permission. It was dangerous and potentially Dark. For Albus to look into Harry’s soul was to see who Harry was in his entirety, flaws and virtues all. That kind of closeness changed a person for life and irretrievably. 

 

“Yes, his soul,” Albus agreed, still smiling. “Our Mister Potter is a Squib now,” he stated, unconcerned. “He refused his place here…”

 

“And you bound his magic?” Minerva whispered, horrified.

 

Albus shook his head, meeting her eyes for the first time since sitting down. “No,” he breathed, a beatific expression sliding across his face and shocking Minerva with its simplistic beauty. She had never seen Albus this at peace, not even when she had been his protégé at seventeen and entering her Transfiguration apprenticeship for the first time. 

 

“Then what happened, Albus?” Minerva asked, fearful of the answer yet getting the increasing feeling that something… miraculous had happened in that tiny muggle house. Something that would… mean absolutely everything.

 

“God happened, Minerva,” Albus replied with quiet reflection. “In young Harry’s soul, I saw God. He saw me and He forgave me my sins, He gave me a second chance.”

 

“God?” Minerva choked, a shaking hand pressing to her chest where her silver crucifix rested cold against her warm skin. 

 

Albus nodded and Minerva realised, with blinding suddenness, that the reason behind Albus’ beatific expression was the kind of serenity one feels whilst in Church and praying to God. A calmness borne of knowing that your Lord loves you, despite every stupid and foolish thing you have done. 

 

“Harry Potter has found God, and in finding Him, has found so much more,” Albus mused, his thumb stroking the edge of his cup. Albus dropped his gaze to the stone-cold tea in the bottom of the fragile mug, his eyes tracing the pattern of cracks in the porcelain, stained brown from dozens of cups of tea. “I will not ask him to come here,” Albus finally stated, meeting Minerva’s grey gaze with his own blue. “I will not take him from the world where he is so desperately needed. I cannot.”

 

Minerva nodded in agreement, silently deciding to seek out young Mister Potter for a Blessing of her own. If he could change Albus from a meddling old man pretending to be calm and collected, to a man who had found inner-peace and serenity, well, that made him worth seeking out. As Albus once more left her office, Minerva McGonagall reflected on the unlikeliness of a wizards magic being transmuted into godly Grace and decided that the attack on the Potters that fateful Halloween had done more for Mister Harry Potter than could be quantified by humanity. 

 

Nay, t’was more likely that Harry had always been this way, his magic tragically stolen from him at a young age, but now on the path towards being a helper and a Healer. A man of Faith, Love and Compassion. One of Gods true Children. And no matter how much she would love to see him here at Hogwarts, as a Child of Faith herself, Minerva knew that Harry’s true place was at Gods side. 

 

…

 

…

 

Harry had just turned fifteen when a man with white skin and red eyes arrived in the gardens of the Seminary where he lived and worked as a priest in training. The man was horrifying to look at, his eyes slit like a snakes and his features blended together in such a way as to suggest they had been melted together like wax. Harry gave no indication that the man terrified him, however, as the man was accompanied by Father Justin, a man on pious faith and a loathing for all things evil. That he couldn’t see this mans true face indicated that witchcraft or devilry was at work here.

 

Harry set aside his book carefully and sat waiting for the Priest and snake-eyed man to reach him beneath his favourite willow tree beside the duck pond where swans, herons and, of course, ducks swam, fed and played. Father Justin paused just long enough to introduce the man as Mister Tom Riddle before leaving once more at a swift pace not entirely hiding his discomfort at being in the presence of a man who made his skin crawl.

 

Harry gestured for the devil-man to sit beside him, never quite meeting his gaze because ehe knew that if he saw into his soul he would be unable to hold back tears. The man beside him was so terribly broken, beyond even the demons that walked. His soul had been seared and torn, ripped from him and split into tiny pieces and spread across the United Kingdom. 

 

Tom Riddle watched the priest-in-training with cunning red eyes, his true visage hidden behind a mask of magic and lies. “I never would have thought,” he drawled with icy confidence. “That I would find Harry Potter hidden in a seminary living a life of leisure while his friends and family burn.”

 

Harry felt a flicker of guilt in his heart, knowing that had he accepted his place in Hogwarts that the man beside him would not have been alive these past three years and wreaking havoc on the Wizarding World. Until the man had sought him out, there was nothing he could have done. Until Tom Riddle had stepped foot on sacred soil with false pretences, Harry would have had to stand by and leave him to his cruel subjugation of the magical world. 

 

But now, Tom Riddle had made the foolish decision to enter this place of Sanctity, this House of Worship, and challenge Harry by forcing the other man to look him in the eyes and see his blackened, ruined soul for what it was. Ragged and ruined, there could be no redemption for this man and Harry was forced with the unpleasant decision to either try and forgive the man beside him or to send him into the Demon Alistair’s arms. A decision that wasn’t even truly a decision because Harry was not one to give up on humanity or to forsake his fellow man. 

 

“No words, little priest?” Tom sneered cruelly, standing once more and towering over the seated teenager, unaware of the green eyed mans decision to save what was left of his soul. 

 

“What would you have me say?” Harry asked the foul man before him, meeting those watery red eyes that shone like fresh spilled blood against his bone white skin that was more snake than man. “Could I say anything to you, Tom Riddle, that would change your mind about me?”

 

Tom blinked in surprise at the strangely melodic voice that Harry spoke with, it made him… feel, once again. Feel more than hatred and fear. Make him regret and desire forgiveness. It filled him rage to feel these things and he bared his teeth in anger and drew his bone white wand and pointed it at the priests heart in threat. “No,” Tom agreed. “There is nothing you can say, you must die so that I might rule this Earth. Prepare to meet your God.”

 

Harry met his fury filled gaze calmly, trusting in God to keep him safe, unaware of Father Justin’s observance of their encounter, his gaze increasingly horrified as he watched, and when Tom drew his wand, Father Justin fled towards the Bishop that ran the seminary, hoping to save his friends life from the mad-man whom he had let into to this sacred place.

 

“None rule this Earth but for our Father, Tom,” Harry stated with calm assurance. His faith unshakable, even in the face of his own impending death. 

 

Tom Riddle snarled, feeling Harry’s calm temperance wash over him like a tide, and hissed the two words that would snuff this mans life from his body. “Avada Kedavra!”

 

Harry smiled as the green light swept over him and settled into his bones, stealing his breath from his body and tugged him under. Above him, Tom watched as his green eyes turned dark, the light fading from their depths and his body falling sideways like a puppet who's strings have been cut. Tom laughed and pointed his wand up into the air, casting the foul curse that would mark his presence as the priests of this place spilled into the gardens in alarm. 

 

_Harry sat upright, his eyes taking in the cold white light of Haven around him and smiled in peace. He was not bitter that his life had been cut short by a mass murderer. He was not angry that God had taken him from Earth before his time. He was not going to rant and rail at the world for being unfair and unjust, because he believed none of these things. Harry knew that everything happened for a reason, and as a man in a white robe approached, he felt serenity wash over him and peace settle into his restless and mortal soul._

 

_“Greetings, Harry Potter,” the man said, reaching down and drawing Harry to his feet, a gentle smile on his lips. “My name is Joshua, and I am the Keeper of Eden and God’s Gardens.”_

 

_Harry bowed lowly to the angel, able to see the faint outlines of great auburn wings that spread from Joshua’s back. “An honour to meet an Angel of the Lord,” Harry stated, straightening once more._

 

_Joshua laughed joyously, smiling beatifically. “As it is an honour to meet the Lord’s chosen Voice on Earth,” the Angel reached out and rested gentle hands on Harry’s shoulders. “One day you will be known on Earth as you are in Heaven, Saint Harry, Patron of Forgiveness and Compassion, a true Son of God.”_

 

_Harry shook his head in disbelief even as he knew Joshua’s words to be true. Angels were incapable of lying, for them to do so meant they had Fallen or were Falling, and for a pure being such as Joshua to Fall would surely break his heart._

 

_“Why am I here, Angel Joshua?” Harry asked quietly as Joshua released his shoulders and fell into step beside the Saintly Man._

 

_“Just Joshua, please,” the Angel said, smiling softly as he guided Harry through one of the Lesser of Gods Gardens. Only those who had truly died were permitted to step forth into Gods many Gardens, and of those, only those who had ascended were permitted into Eden._

 

_“Joshua,” Harry corrected himself as he helplessly paused by a great tree that shone in the golden light of Heaven and stared in utter awe at its presence. “Magnificent,” he breathed, smiling widely. He reached up and trailed gentle fingers over the leaves that hung like a willows in strands, infusing his delight and Grace into each strand and smiled as the tree gratefully accepted his offering and grew stronger for it._

 

_Joshua watched the Saint walk through the Garden and knew that when Harry truly died, he would be a Gardener as Joshua was, caring and loving each of their Father’s creations unbidden and limitlessly. Smiling with gentle compassion, Joshua gently steered Harry to the edge of a pond and gestured him to seat himself on a stone bench much like one at the Seminary._

 

_“You are here because the Lord has bidden it,” Joshua said without preamble and Harry turned to meet Joshua’s deep brown gaze and he smiled in gratitude. It was ever pleasing to know that what you did made your Father proud. “He has had Metatron write a list to be given to the Pope. On this list will be three dozen names of people to be canonised, yourself included.”_

 

_“How will I be able to pass this List on?” Harry asked, confused. “Am I not dead?”_

 

_Joshua chuckled slightly, smiling widely at his companions innocent naïvety. “Not yet, our Father has determined that your Task is not yet over.”_

 

_“Then I will do my utmost to gain audience of God’s Vessel on Earth,” Harry mused, wondering how a lowly priest such as he could ever gain the attention of such an august body._

 

_Joshua smiled, “you will have aid from one of my Brothers.”_

 

_“Such aid will be gratefully received,” Harry admitted sheepishly. “After I have delivered the List, what then?”_

 

_Joshua hummed lightly, shifting his wings and smiling softly. “From Rome you will go to Blue Earth, Minnesota; a town that has a most dreadful problem and concerns our Lord with its false worship.”_

 

_Harry nodded, “His will be done.”_

 

_“We knew we could trust you,” Joshua noted, pleased. “April 10, 2010; Blue Earth, Minnesota. Don’t be late, for the lives of Innocents depend on it.”_

 

Harry awoke with a gasping breath, the dislocation of Heaven to Earth was disorientating, and he was staring up at the madly cackling Tom Riddle as he cast a bright bolt of light into the sky and twisted the thick cloud cover, that had not been there previously, into the figure of a skull swallowing a snake and knew the man in front of him to be a demon in human form. 

 

Kindness and compassion could not rule here, Harry knew as he slowly stood, his body aching from its dislocation from living to dead and back to living once more. In front of him, Tom ceased his mad laughter, shock stealing over him as Harry staggered forwards and lay hands on his head, one on his forehead in a mockery of benediction, the other cradling the nape of his neck, preventing Tom from fleeing Harry’s divine judgement. 

 

“ _Tom Marvolo Riddle_ ,” Harry stated, his voice stolen by God’s Words. “ _You are hereby Judged as Demonic and Inhuman. You are sentenced to three thousand years in Hell which you shall spend upon Alistair’s rack and know the truth of pain. You will receive no forgiveness nor Love from your fellows, you will find no subjugation but will be subjugated in turn. Leave now, and never come back_!”

 

There was a flash of bright white light and above Harry the gathering of priests, bishops and decons could see one of the Lord’s Angels, his four auburn wings spread above Harry like benediction, one hand resting on the youthful priests shoulder, the other overlapping Harry’s on Tom’s head as both Priest and Angel sent Tom Riddle to Hell on behalf of the Lord God.

 

And despite there being three dozen witnesses, not a single report made it to Rome for it was not yet time and Harry was not yet ready. God had gifted Harry unto Joshua for protection and so Joshua would protect the young Saint with every scrap of his Grace. There would be time enough for Harry’s words to reach the Vatican, but it was not yet now.

 

So, while Harry learned and grew, and Bishop Jerome watched and waited for his youngest priests next miracle; the Angel Joshua watched over his young charge and cared for him as God had dictated.  

 


	3. In the name of the Father, and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit.

 

The motel was crappy. That much Harry and Dudley agreed on as they pulled into the parking lot and parking by a black ’67 Chevy Impala with custom detailing on the side. Of course, only Harry could see the Enochian symbols that protected the two drivers from demonic possession. Given the faint power behind the symbols, Harry was inclined to believe that it was Joshua who had set them deep into the metal, and it was only because of his familiarity with the dark skinned angel that allowed him to sense it. 

 

Dudley pulled out the note that had been hand delivered to the by a peeved Angel with blonde hair and grey eyes, neither priest had been able to catch the angels’ name before he’d rolled his eyes and flown away. Joshua however, had helpfully included it, along with a piece of paper for ‘internal complaints’. Apparently angels had performance reviews like human businesspeople did. That, or the dark eyed Gardener had a sense of humour. Frankly, Dudley suspected that it was the latter. 

 

Harry climbed from the rental that Dudley had picked with far too much glee, his delight at being able to drive a Porsche on the Pope’s own money was inexplicable. Mainly because Harry was fairly certain that John Paul II and Dudley had gotten along fairly well, considering the age differences and theological debate over Harry’s sainthood. The blonde man knocked on the motel door reading: Room 14 in brass letters and Harry stood behind the other man, getting the feeling that there was something very powerful on the other side of that door and it wasn’t exactly kosher.

 

A tall man with short hair opened to door with a bemused expression that swiftly became suspicious as he took in the two strangers before him. One of which was painfully thin, dark haired and green eyes, the other blonde haired, blue eyed and apparently an athlete of some kind. Dudley smiled at the man and held out the letter, looking at the ragged and loose jeans he wore under a too-big dark blue tee and green military jacket. Clearly being a Hunter didn’t pay well.

 

“A letter for the Winchester Brothers,” Dudley announced, holding out the cream vellum envelope. Winchester, because that had to be who he was although which of the brothers was still uncertain, accepted the letter incredulously and slid his thumb beneath the seal, cracking the wax seal.

 

“Dean, who is it?” A tall, taller than the other brother, asked. He had long brown hair and hazel eyes and wore the same kind of jeans, tee and over shirt combination as his brother. His expression was stressed and sad despite being startled at the sight of two men in black cassocks on the motels stoop. “Dean?”

 

‘Dean’, who was reading the letter, held up his hand and then looked at the two cousins, his expression startled. “This has to be a joke?” He asked more than said uncertainly.

 

“No joke, Dean Winchester,” Dudley assured him. He pulled Harry forwards, knowing that his cousins thinness would be worrying for the Hunters until they understood that the other man wasn’t anorexic by choice. Apparently being a Saint meant that you burned a shit-load of energy, particularly when you Heal people. 

 

“God sent a Priest to kill the Whore of Babylon?” Dean clarified.

 

Sam, because who else would be travelling with Dean Winchester, stepped forwards, shocked. “What?” He demanded, ripping the letter from Dean’s hands and staring at the slanted writing on the parchment. “This is from Joshua, the same angel that told us God doesn’t care!”

 

“He had to,” Harry stated tiredly, his green eyes dulled as he was swamped by the feeling of the broken hearts and souls in front of him. He wanted nothing more than to lay his hands on them and Heal them of their sorrows. But for now, he couldn’t. “You had to think that God did not care so that you could empathise with those around you, to not take your faith for granted.”

 

Dean huffed in annoyance, “well that’s a load of bullshit!”

 

Harry laughed softly, “a lot of what God does looks like bullshit.” The dark haired man moved closer to Dean, his green eyes sharp and determined. “Know, however, Dean Winchester, that God will never forsaken you.”

 

Dean edged away, his expression a bit freaked out. “Great, thanks for the heads up,” he said.

 

Sam rolled his eyes and gestured for the priests to enter the motel room, startling the angel from his seat on the couch. Harry raised an eyebrow at the stench of alcohol that wafted from the Falling angel, his heart aching for the being who despaired of his Father’s actions and feared that everything he had been told for his long life had been false. Dudley took a seat on one of the beds and watched his cousin approach the angel who tried to escape from the Saint. 

 

Harry was drawn like a magnet to a lodestone towards the dark haired angel, ignoring his softly spoken exclamation of “Crap!” and grabbed the angels wrist to anchor him in place. “Your Grace is in tatters,” Harry observed, his expression and touch gentle as he tugged the angel closer to him. He tilted his head back and stared into those bright blue eyes that were shadowed and pained and felt his forehead crease in concern. “Your Father knows of your trials and tribulations and Loves you for them.”

 

“My Father is dead!” The angel snapped, his voice tight with rage and pain, the alcohol in his system making him loose tongued and foolish. “Nothing you can tell me will make me believe differently.”

 

Harry smiled and huffed slightly, amused. “How about I show you then?”

 

The angels eyes barely had time to widen before Harry lifted a hand and cupped his cheek, pulling him into a chaste kiss and pouring everything that God had told him into that one tiny kiss. The angel, his wings heavy and dark behind him, flared like a cloud of inky darkness, feathers curving around them, cradling Harry to him closely. The young Saint flared brightly, filled with Gods Grace for the briefest moments, before his eyes rolled back into his head and he sagged into the angels embrace, unconscious and spent.

 

“Okay,” Dean said, utterly dumbfounded. “What the actual fuck was that?”

 

The angel smiled brightly, innocently, his Grace spilling from him like a golden cloud. “My Father Loves me,” he said, proud and confident in those quiet words. 

 

Dudley stood, pulling Harry from the angels arms and holding the smaller man close to him as he checked his vitals and ensured that his cousin was safe and sound after that little display. “Harry is a Saint,” Dudley explained quietly. “He regularly performs miracles,” Dudley gestured to the angel with a slight smile. “He just gathered the very small amount of Gods Grace given to him by Joshua and showed your angel how wrong he was to doubt our Father.”

 

“He’s a saint?” Sam asked, pointing at Harry who was being tucked into bed by his larger cousin.

 

Dudley nodded, proud of his cousin. “When we were children, Harry was always being bullied by myself and my friends. He never was one for fighting and usually ran from us, which,” Dudley admitted with a wince, “led to us taking it as a challenge.” Dudley paused and ran a hand across his cousins brow, smiling slightly, “one day, when we were around eight years old, Harry runs across the park with all five of us chasing him.” Dudley drew in a sharp breath before continuing, “and I fell,” he traced a hand down his stomach, feeling the old raised scar that lay silver on his pale skin. “I landed on a ledge where some of the older kids hung out drinking on the weekends and had smashed one of the bottles there and the glass ran me straight through.”

 

Dudley paused once more, rubbing Harry’s shoulder in gratitude and familial love briefly, smiling softly. “None of my friends stuck around to help me, too scared of the consequences of me getting hurt. My parents were cruel to everyone,” Dudley licked his dry lips, “especially Harry.” Dudley finally looked up and met Sam and Dean’s eyes while the angel stood at the foot of the bed and stared at Harry with disturbing intensity. “I should have died that day but Harry,” Dudley huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “But Harry, he saw what happened and returned for me. He knelt by my side and told me…” Dudley smiled brightly, remembering a tragic but amazing memory. “And Harry told me…”

 

Harry was awake by now and was smiling as he repeated the words from so long ago, the words that had redeemed his cousin and set the blonde man on the path of God. “ _Don’t worry, Dud, I’ve got you. Don’t worry Dudley, God loves you and so do I._ ” Harry struggled upright, his cousins arm sliding around his shoulders and supporting him. “ _Don’t worry Dudley, you’re going to be just fine, look, you’re Healed. Look what God did, Dudley, he Healed you._ ”

 

“And he does,” Dudley said calmly and with faith. “As he loves the Winchester Brothers and all his angelic Sons and Daughters.”

 

The angel smiled slightly, comforted. “Thank you, Saint Harry.”

 

Harry stood and bowed slightly, “to help you re-learn to fly, Angel Cassiel, is my greatest pleasure.”

 

“Castiel,” the angel corrected amused. “There was a mistranslation in that text.”

 

Harry flushed and coughed, his neck burning bright red all the way up to his ears. Sam grinned at Castiel who watched the youthful Saint with gratitude and no small amount of fondness. Saint Harry had been dependable on several happenstances and if any of them had changed, Harry would have been a wizard only. Powerful to be sure, but not of much use to the world as Saint Harry was, is and forever would be. Had Harry not stumbled into that Church when he was a child; had Fathers Matthew and Thomas turned away from him; had Dudley not fallen and had Harry not picked up that tiny black leather book with its golden letters, none of this might have happened…

 

…

 

…

 

Chuck woke with a blazing headache and knew that today was going to be a very bad day. He struggled upright and glared hazily at the computer screen in front of him and wished himself dead. Or at least for that fucking angel ahead to get his feathery arse down here and relieving his sodding headache… but oh wait, the feathery dick-face couldn’t. He wasn’t fucking allowed. Fucking angles.

 

It was to thoughts like these that the sodden and alcoholic prophet staggered into the kitchen and poured himself a doubled-teaspoon-of-instant-and-a-measure-of-scotch-coffee. Being a prophet was bad for your health, if his arteries didn’t clog first his liver would undoubtably fail. Chuck drained the steaming cup of joe so swiftly that any observer might assume his mouth to be made of asbestos, before pouring himself a second and then a third in as equally quick secession. 

 

He had just sat himself in front of his computer again with his fifth coffee and scotch mix, well on his way to be re-sozzled, when the doorbell rang giving himself a sense of deja vu. His dream from the night before, something about a whore, Dean and Sam Winchester, their side-kick angel and two priestly looking guys, drifted through his mind as he staggered to the front door and heaved it open and stared at the sight that greeted him. 

 

“Who the fuck are you?” He grumbled, wincing at the bright light that assaulted and raped his eyeballs mercilessly. 

 

The man, a tall blonde man in a black cassock with blue eyes, stared at him in amusement and smiled. “And here I thought God was going to warn you of our visit?” 

 

“Eh?” Chuck grunted, staggering backwards and allowing both men to walk in. Gathering from the way the walls, ceiling and windows weren't shaking or bright light pouring from where it shouldn’t, Chuck went ahead and assumed that the two men in front of him were safe. 

 

“I am Father Harry and this is my cousin, Father Dudley,” the second man, dark hair, green eyes and also of the black cassock wearing type, introduced himself gently, his voice soothing to Chuck’s hyper-sensitive ears.

 

“Pleasure,” Chuck lied, staggering back to his computer and collapsing into his chair. “Why are you here?”

 

Father Harry smiled slightly, amused. “To Heal you, Prophet Chuck,” the dark haired priest stated easily, kneeling beside Chuck’s chair and starling the brown haired man with his nearness. 

 

“How did you get over here so fast?” Chuck demanded, not entirely comprehending the mans apparent determination to heal his drunken ass. 

 

Father Dudley snorted in humour, his blue eyes shining with mirth and turned away from the sight of his gentle but exasperated cousin glaring up at the so-sodden Prophet that-he-could-even-see-which-way-was-up. Father Dudley moved about the house, picking up litter and generally tidying the place up while the Prophet named Chuck argued with Saint Harry the Patron of Forgiveness, who wasn’t quite willing to forgive this because Raphael was lapsing in his duties as a fucking Healer as Gabriel was in his duties as Messenger. Harry was dedicated to God and didn’t understand those who weren’t the same. 

 

Chuck peered blearily at the man beside him, feeling the priests cool hands rising up and cradling his head and that smooth, soothing voice washing over him, leeching the pain from his skull and the alcohol from his skin. The Prophets eyes rolled backwards into his head and the dark haired Saint caught him as he fell, manoeuvring him, with the help of Dudley, onto the couch to sleep of his lingering hangover. 

 

When Chuck awoke some five hours later, it was to a clean house and the distinct memory of his dream the night before. It wasn’t until he was half-way through writing ’99 Problems’ that he remembered his saintly visitors and the healing they had offered him. It was also then that he realised that he wasn’t drunk or in need of pain relief from his usual blinding headaches. It would be another twelve hours until he looked in the fridge in search of food and found the message that the two priests had left on top of several containers of ready-to-heat Bolognese sauce and pasta. 

 

Chuck grinned.

 


	4. Our Father In Heaven, Hallowed Be Thy Name

Pope John Paul II sat behind his stupidly ornate desk and procrastinated in reading whatever files and forms his ‘beloved’ secretary, Bishop Jeremiah had found for him today. He knew it wasn’t a particularly kind thing to do, but he desperately hated Bishop Jeremiah, more because the good Bishop flat out refused to let him take the million and one breaks he’d much prefer to do than read yet another treasury report. He was so bored he was close to tears.

The only saving grace in this situation was his twelve o’clock appointment with the promising young Priests, who had moved to the Holy City five years ago. The younger Priest, Harry Potter, had recently given a sermon on Love and Compassion and the elderly Pope had been moved enough to call the young man to his presence. Naturally, Father Potter never went anywhere without his beloved cousin and sidekick, Father Dudley Dursley, a gentle and kind man who was especially good with children. Almost as if he had something to atone for, Pope John Paul II hummed to himself, reluctantly casting an eye over the ‘Holy Budget’.

The influx of new parishioners from England and the Italian hinterlands was interesting. Most of the local’s came from Bishop -nay, Father Francesco’s new flock. The elderly Father having stepped down from the red trim cassock in favour of a simpler name, his reasons for leaving vague but firm. The newly instated Bishop Adler was most disturbed by his mentors leaving until he spent some time in the presence of Fathers Dursley and Potter, rumoured to have been seen in Father Francesco’s presence before stepping down.

Which made their presence all the more intriguing. Rumours from the seminary that both men had lived in told of miracles and God-given Grace, compassion and Love. The Pope set his pen down and removed his gold wore-rimmed glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. The conflicting rumours and stories about Father Potter had left him in a bit of a bind, he was unsure if he should question the youthful priest or if he should sit back and watch, wait for something rare and miraculous to happen. Then there was the problem of whether nothing happened, or something did happen, what should he do?

Should he, if nothing happened, accept the lack of divine power in the man and allow the pretender to leave? Or should he, as the Church doctrine mandated, cast the false Priest from the cloth and strip him of his colours? Either way, the Pope suspected that he would be loosing one of the best things to happen to this place, Vatican City, in a long long time.

And then there were the equally unpleasant problems arising if Harry Potter was a Saint or Messiah. If there were miracles being performed, how should he react? Should he watch and wait until the Saint had died before canonising him? Should he announce it to the world, opening himself up to ridicule and cruel commentary from around the world? Or should he deny and open himself up to disapproval from Up High?

Okay, so that last one, he admitted himself, wasn’t much of a choice at all.

The even worse, he thought, picking up his pen once more and glaring at the nib that was leaking black ink across his papers, how could he even explain a Saint in the twenty-first century when God was barely believed in any more? And even when the Lord was believed in, it was in a kind of God that forgot about his true nature as a wrathful, awesome, biblical God who as easily Loved as he did Smite. No, Pope John Paul II was in a fairly unenviable position here and he wasn’t too sure if he owned enough faith to cover it. Not to be facetious or anything, but he was pretty damned sure that if he went about this the wrong way, he’d be crucified like the Son of God; by lots and lots of Romans pissed off at him changing the world order.

Mainly because he was in Rome and not too many people would get to him as fast as the pissed off Roman populous. Sometimes, he groaned to himself as he leant back in his chair, pen rolling from between his fingers as he raised weathered hands to his face and burying his head into his hands, it really, really didn’t pay to get out of bed. Somedays, the Pope really, really wished he’d never been elected to this thankless position, forever doubted and harangued by the people who were supposed to support him best, all for acting on faith, as they were all supposed to do.

It was quite ironic that the City of Faith probably contained the most faithless and skeptical men and women in the world.

Pope John Paul II raised his head, ink spots running along his hair line, at the sound of a gentle knock upon his rosewood door. “Enter!” He bade the knocker, suspecting that it was Bishop Jeremiah, his heart sinking to his toes as the tiny, dark haired Bishop tottered in like a little black crow, his eyes black and beady as he peered over yet another stack of files. The Pope swore unto God that paperwork was the realm of the devil and cringed backwards as the files slid precariously forwards, threatening to spill into his lap, as Bishop Jeremiah set them on his desk.

“Good Afternoon, Your Holiness,” Bishop Jeremiah smiled, thin lips stretching wide like a lizards, his black eyes gleaming beneath heavy brows that reminded the Pope of caterpillars. “Your twelve o’clock meeting has arrived,” the Bishop paused his oily address and the Pope felt his soul shiver in mild dread. “Would you like me to send them in?”

Pope John Paul II rested ink stained fingers upon his desk, as though praying for patience. “Naturally, Jeremiah,” the Pope requested quietly, ignoring the way that the Bishops face turned spiteful and mean. He had no interest in his secretaries jealous nature and secretive desire to keep the Pope to himself. “And call for tea, please,” Pope John Paul II instructed gently.

“It shall be done, your Holiness,” Bishop Jeremiah agreed sourly, backing out of the room almost silently, his black shoes whispering on the thick red, purple and gold Persian carpets.

Within moments the silence of the Palpal office descended once more only to be broken by Bishop Jeremiah returning, although this time he escorted two men. One tall, thin and dark haired with the most piercing green eyes above thin yet sculpted lips and a strong straight nose and strong jawline. He was thin enough to look like a good breeze would knock him over, yet for some reason, the Pope believed that the man in front of him would survive the very worst instances and situations. Would perhaps even do things that no normals man would dare attempt.

The other man was taller still with sky blue eyes and neat blonde hair, and unlike his companion, the blonde man appeared to be less refined, his jaw not as defined, his nose slightly too broad and his cheekbones too rounded to look truly distinguished. Yet, for all his unpolished beauty, the man wore calm and contentment like a second vestment, serenely meeting the Pope’s gaze with calm and joy. Both men wore the traditional black cassock and both men wore the purple stole of Lent, despite the season having only just started and that not even the Pope was really all that ready for Easter. (Reminding him unsubtly of the paperwork that kept piling up, cruelly he might add, and adding to his already dismal abilities of time (miss)management.)

Pope John Paul II gently dismissed his secretary with a wave of his hand, smiling slightly at Bishop Jeremiah’s pathetic pout while considering the man who many considered to be a Saint. Harry Potter, the dark haired man, did not look like a Saint, but appearances, he knew, could be very deceiving. “You requested to meet with me?” The Pope inquired, knowing this to be true but equally knowing that none could have gained access to him unless he himself desired meeting them.

“I did, you Holiness,” Father Potter agreed, reaching into a fold of his cassock and removing an old and tattered letter that he had held onto for the past seven years. Without further ado, the youthful priest passed it onto the Pope, his green eyes serious but serene. “I was asked to pass this onto you, your Holiness.”

“By whom?” The Pope inquired as he cracked the seal open and opened up the letter. The seal, that of a tall tree burdened with apples and other glorious fruits, was recognisable, although from where, Pope John Paul II had no idea.

“Joshua,” Father Potter answered.

The Pope paused in reading the missive, his brow raised, “Joshua?”

“An Angel of the Lord, your Holiness,” Father Potter replied, his voice calm as if he had not just shaken the very roots of Pope John Paul II’s beliefs.

The Pope closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose with inky fingers. “Angels,” he muttered, vaguely remembering meeting a tall dark man with kind brown eyes on his inauguration and asking for proof in a list of Saints who should and had been canonised in order to ensure the Church was operating to God’s desires. In his hand was that list, close to ten years too late to be sure, but that list that Joshua had once promised him was now in his hands and close to the bottom was a name that was highly familiar: Harry Potter.

“Joshua speaks to Harry on occasion, your Holiness,” Father Dursley stated, confident in his belief, in his faith.

The Pope sighed heavily, “of course he does.”

Father Potter leant forwards, determinedly trying to impart his divine knowledge on the ageing man before him. “I know it is hard,” he sympathised, truly, he did. “But you are not like those around you, Your Holiness,” Father Potter settled his hands, palms placed flat together, under his chin and his elbows resting on his knees. “But you do not have their luxury of being able to doubt my words or the words within that missive. As God’s Vessel on Earth, you have the singular duty to guide humanity to Heaven and beyond.”

“I do realise this,” the Pope’s words were sardonic and bitter, how he knew this already yet still, many, even his own congregations, doubted he and his words. It was a sad fact of the modern era that God was no longer fashionable and his morals and rules were considered outdated to many and irrelevant to most. The Pope met his young and idealist priests eyes, curious, “what would you have me do?”

“Nothing,” Father Potter admitted finally, leaning back in his chair and blatantly ignoring the way that Father Dursley stared at him incredulously. “You will have enough trouble in a few years time dealing with the apocalypse.”

“The Apocalypse?” Pope John Paul II demanded, horrified.

“Quite,” Father Potter agreed, rubbing at the bridge of his nose tiredly. “It would appear that God has grown tired of Earth and had decided to make it anew.”

“Such falsities from one of Gods Saints,” a deep dark voice murmured smoothly from behind Father Potter, startlingly the Pope with the dark skinned mans appearance.

Father Potter twisted around, smiling in greeting at the man, and calmly gestured to the empty chair beside him. The Pope quietly breathed a word of thanks to his preference for three chairs in front of him rather than the traditional two. While Father Dursley watched the proceedings with hooded eyes, the dark skinned man too his seat primly, too wooden in his movements to be human.

“Joshua,” Father Potter greeted the newcomer, stretching out a hand and brushing fingers across the angels own in reassurance. “What brings you here?”

Joshua, Angel and Gardener of the Lord and His Creations, sat before the Pope and his two guests with dark eyes that seemed to stare into the soul. “I have come to check up on the meeting between my two charges and to ensure that neither of you do anything foolish.”

“Charges?” The Pope questioned, curiously leaning forwards, desperately trying to pretend that he wasn’t staring at the angels back and seeking for any kind of indications of the angels wings. Because staring is rude and disbelieving in Gods Angels is Blasphemy. (And potentially Heresy, but Pope John Paul II doesn’t really want to think about that too much.)

“Indeed,” Joshua hummed slightly, thinking. “You are both my charges, although every Pope is my Charge-”

“I thought the Popes were protected by Michael, the eldest and strongest of Archangels?” Father Dursley questioned, too curious to manage to silence himself before such august bodies of faith.

Joshua smiled at the faithful and trusting human, knowing him to be the only thing that would keep the youthful Saint from despairing in the coming years. “Once, they might have been, before Michael lost faith, Raphael lost hope and Gabriel fled Heaven.”

“And what of Uriel, Chamuel, Jophiel, and Zadkiel?” The Pope asked horrified by the state of Heaven and the distress barely shown by Joshua.

“Uriel is naught but a Seraph,” Joshua smiled darkly, his eyes bitter. “Despite what your Book of Enoch may tell you, while Chamuel and Zadkiel, also Seraphs, both died in the fight against Hell’s Knights, before Lucifer was Cast Down and Sealed in the Cage.”

“And Jophiel?” Pope John Paul II was frightened to asked, but he had to know!

Joshua smirked, a bitter twisting of lips that did not suit him, “I am Jophiel,” the dark skinned angel shrugged nonchalantly, “a mistranslation, as happened frequently.” Joshua ran a hand down his face tiredly, “being a Prophet of the Lord is not easy, Hearing the Word of God is destructive on the mind, and painful, so many Prophets medicate with high dosages of alcohol so they are not driven insane by each message.”

The Pope stared at the angel, shocked. “The Bible is incorrect?”

“Most of it,” Joshua agreed dryly. “Many have tried to correct it, but it is for the most part, impossible to do so. Mainly because the Word must be given via Prophet, it is improper for an angel to step in to clarify.”

Pope John Paul II nodded tiredly, understandingly. Even if he understood, he didn’t have to like the rules, which often sounded arbitrary and mean. But God’s Law and Word was exactly that, God’s Law and Word. “Then why have you come?”

Joshua smirked once more, “to clarify and impart upon you both your tasks.”

“Clarify what?” Father Potter asked warily, even as the Pope questioned: “What tasks?”

“Saint Harry has been requested to attend the Prophet Edlund, to Heal him and then to attend the Whore of Babylon,” Joshua stated, meeting the green eyes of the Saint beside him. Harry Potter should have been Raphael’s Charge, would have been Raphael’s Charge had Raphael not despaired and lost all hope in humanity and his Father. Their Father, the Lord God in Heaven. Absence did not mean Death, as the young Archangel would one day find out, once of course, he earned his Father’s Forgiveness for his tomfoolery and cruel words that caused the younger angels to despair and Fall. Raphael had done more damage with his negativity than Lucifer had ever done with his war.

Joshua then turned to the Pope and smiled tightly, “and you are to shake the Clergy and Church, ensuring that my, -Our Father’s word is obeyed.” The Gardener held out a second letter, this time written in Latin by God, to the Pope. It would be foolish of the man to resist or to fail to educate his followers. Although the future Pope Benedict XVI would be a disappointment, the Pope thereafter, Pope Francis, was apparently going to be spectacular. According to God anyway, Joshua would reserve judgement on that, not that he should Judge, that was God and Gabriel’s job only, his was to watch, wait and to tend God’s Green Earth. Which he would.

The angel watched over the trio as Father Dudley Dursley hashed out a travel plan for five years time with Pope John Paul II, the Pope the only one knowing that he would not see this trip, his time coming to an end swiftly. Already he considered stepping down in a years time. He was old and weary, for all that he enjoyed ruling this body of Clergymen, it was getting harder and more tiresome with every passing year. Saint Harry sat silently in his chair, speaking only when necessary, trusting in his cousin to keep them safe and organised. He could do nothing less, after all.

…

…

Endings are hard. They can be cruel and unkind. For many, endings happen in the embrace of Death, freeing them of the pain and weariness of old age. For others it like a long hard run, wrestling with pain and illness, well before their time. For a very few, its quick and brief, no more painful than turning off a light. Of all these, Saint Harry Potter wished to never know the pain of loosing his cousin, a man who had held him up through good times and bad, no matter their beginnings.

When he had been a teen, Vernon and Petunia had been cruel and unkind, but their ending had been bittersweet, turning from the seminary and leaving their beloved son and hated nephew inside to seek their lives among the faithful. When he had been a young man, he had created many a kind ending by giving people a new beginning that suited them better. By Blessing those around him, Saint Harry had ever hoped to find that inner peace within his flock and grant them that illusive serenity that was forever sought amongst humanity.

But never once had he thought to end up in the middle of a cemetery, staring into the eyes of Sam-Winchester-who-was-not, Dean Winchester behind his brother looking devastated, and both brothers staring at him at a loss and fearful for their lives. By their feet was the angel Castiel and an old man wearing a blue baseball cap, both beings dead and broken.

Unlike every other situation he got himself into, Saint Harry was quite alone this time and at a loss of what to do. Oh, it was quite clear what had happened, Sam was possessed, quite possibly by the Devil Lucifer, and Dead was desperately trying to stop him, trying to find his beloved brother within the dark monster that inhabited his mind.

Saint Harry raised a hand and placed it against Dean’s chest, feeling the rapid heart-beat thundering away like a pounding drum within. “Dean,” Saint Harry stated calmly, his voice musical and kind. “It is time for you to leave now.”

Dean stared at the Saintly human beside him, wondering where the man had come from and what he was going on about. “What?”

“It is time for you to go now,” Saint Harry reiterated calmly, pushing gently on Dean’s chest and shoving him away from Sam who watched curiously.

“But-” Dean tried to protest, Harry’s saintly serenity chipping away at his stubborn demeanour and convincing him that it really was in his best interests to listen and leave after all.

“Dean,” Saint Harry gently scolded, surprising the Devil before him as Dean slumped and backed away. Leaving the Saint and Devil alone in the cemetery of Stull. Saint Harry turned to the Devil and smiled softly, “hail, Lucifer,” he greeted the Fallen Archangel.

Lucifer cocked his head to the side, quite unused to being greeted in such a manner before clicking just what the being before him was. “A Saint,” he sneered, unimpressed. “You seek to stop me?”

“No,” Saint Harry said calmly. “Nor to Heal you.”

Lucifer shifted his weight, unaware of the stirring at the back of his mind as Sam woke, as if from a deep sleep, and peered out from behind the Devil’s eyes and into the kindly serene face of the only Saint he had ever met. “Then why have you come?” Lucifer demanded of the man before him, uneasy. Saint’s were bad news for those like him, they were incorruptible and compassionate to the core. The only good thing about them, was that they had a tendency to die young.

“To forgive you,” Saint Harry stated firmly.

Lucifer paused, shocked, realising that Dean had done as the Saint had asked, left the cemetery and was miles away by now and still driving; realising that Sam was awake and very confused in the back of his mind but equally curious as to the Saint’s intentions, well, Lucifer grumbled silently, that made two of them; and realising, with a lightning bolt of chocked fear, that the Saint was here on behalf of his Father.

That was the tricky thing about Saint’s, they died young for the simple reason that they tended to burn out quick and fast like gunpowder. Shaping and changing the world around them as they did so. They left no stone untouched, no river unchanged for the presence. It was infuriating; and here stood a Saint passing on his Father’s goddamned Forgiveness, as if he sought it. Lucifer bared his teeth in fury.

“Why are you here?”

Saint Harry sighed tiredly, “to forgive you, Lucifer, Son of God.”

“We are all Sons of God,” Lucifer snapped without thinking, unwillingly validating his Father’s creations for the first time in one hundred thousand years.

“I know this,” Saint Harry agreed wearily. “You know this.” He added, stepping forwards, “yet you refuse your Father’s Love and Forgiveness.”

“I have not sought it,” Lucifer denied the Saint, ignoring the green-eyed man’s attempts at sneaking up on him. It was useless to try and the Saint could hardly hurt him, none could by his brothers and Michael was running late. As usual.

“Nevertheless,” Saint Harry stated calmly, resting a gentle hand over Lucifer’s/Sam’s heart. “You have earned it.”

Lucifer watched the tiny Saint with curiosity only to freeze as some kind of warmth filled him and then, fear swiftly followed. It was an instinctive reaction to an outside threat, and as Lucifer’s hands wrapped about Harry Potter’s throat, Michael arrived in a blaze of glory only to freeze at the sight of Sam's Soul crying and shouting for Lucifer to stop while the Devil snapped the neck of a dark haired, green eyed man.

It was all the motivation Sam needed; the tall, brown haired man wrestled control from the Devil long enough to lower the man to the ground gently before summoning the portal to the Cage and dragging both stunned Archangels in after him, tears still streaming from his eyes. Behind him the ground closed up like the maw of a great beast and Saint Harry’s eyes stared glassily up at the sky above him, a faint smile on his lips.

The crunch of tires on crackling grass heralded Dean’s return, the hazel eyed man leaping from the car and falling to his knees beside Saint Harry in shock, ignoring Castiel’s sudden gasp as life was returned to him and Bobby Singer’s groan. As the angel struggled upright and the elder hunter did the same, Dean knelt beside the young man that had healed his heart and soul and wept with soul crushing sadness.

No matter how hard he tried, Castiel was quite unable to revive the young Saint, his blue eyes wet with tears of sorrow, grief and guilt.

…

…

Dudley Dursley knelt by the grave of his cousin, Harry Potter and smiled. It had been a year today since the young Saint’s death, but Papa Francis had finally canonised the gentle man who had touched so many. Dudley let strong hands run over the smooth marble, amused at the sight of three angel feathers that had been pressed into the stone, Castiel and Joshua had both argued for the right as protector and protected, while Verchiel had just wished to express his delight in meeting and sorrow in loosing the kind-hearted Saint. Upon the surface, read the message:

 _Do not let your hearts be troubled. Trust in God; trust also in me. In our Father's house are many rooms; if it were not so, I would have told you. I am going there to prepare a place for you._  
John 14:1-2  
…

…

Harry Potter walked upon a Western Shore, the sun sank below the horizon on his left and by his side walked a Man with wise eyes and a kind mouth. His hands were gentle as He guided Harry around rocks and surf, and it took them very little time to reach their destination by the bluffs that rose like sentinels above their heads. The Man turned, dark hair ruffled by the gentle wind and he smiled, hazel eyes twinkling behind eyeglasses as He held out an arm, waiting for Harry’s embrace.

Harry smiled, stepping forth and embracing the Man tightly, his eyes leaking salty tears of gratitude, knowing that his time had come and it was time for him to rest. “Thank you,” he whispered, stepping away and through to the cave that held the entrance to his Heaven, his dream, his family where he would sit, laugh and love while waiting for Dudley Dursley to rejoin him.

As the young Saint walked away the Man’s form shimmered and became indistinct, returning to a hazy, vibrating orb of pure energy that radiated peace and contentment. Beside Him arrived another Man, dark skinned and kind eyed, this Man bore four wings upon his back, feathered white gold that shimmered red in the fading light and he smiled as he realised whom had left this place for the last time. Saint Harry was free and at peace at last.

Beside the dark skinned Angel, God smiled and hummed in his own way, breathing out his reply to Harry’s long since passed gratitude, before turning and leaving once more. As Joshua followed his Father from the sheltered cove on the Western shore, the bluffs of white stone were painted black as the light faded in a flash of green light…

“No,” He whispered. “Thank YOU, Harry James Potter. Until We meet again…”

**Author's Note:**

> Please note, that I am not a religious person at all. I have tried to reflect well upon Christianity and to my knowledge, I've done moderately alright - but I really only ever attended informal religious education through an Anglican school. So I apologise if I offend anyone.
> 
> \- Xan, Sar_Kalu


End file.
